Happy Returns
by NightRaven511
Summary: He loved him fiercely no matter how England had driven them apart. "I...I just thought there would be a birthday cake for me. That's how I used to celebrate birthdays." Oneshot.


**A/N:** Ah ha ha, lol. I was inspired to write this little piece yesterday, and was planning to post this on the 1st July, which is, as you all know, the official birthday of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region and the transfer of sovereignty over Hong Kong from the United Kingdom to People's Republic of China. But I didn't. I posted it on FFNet _today_. That's how I roll.

And because it's _my_ birthday today. :D

So, whoohoo! First _Hetalia_ fanfiction ever! Or should I say, first _finished_ _Hetalia_ fanfiction ever. I admit I barely read much of the comics, so I don't really have a precise knowledge on Hong Kong's character (most of my info on him comes from _Hetalia Archives_), but hey, he's _my_ city, I can write whatever I like about him! Mwahaha.

*cross fingers* Please don't let him be OOC, please don't let him be OOC...

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><p><span>Happy Returns<span>

[1st July, 1998]

"China!" called Hong Kong from his room, his brown choppy fringe covering half his left eye poking out from the door, "Are you ready or not?"

Yao huffed impatiently, pulling at the collar of his mandarin jacket in attempt to ward off the heat as he crawled out from the cupboard underneath the stove, both hands carrying a wok. His face was grimy from the dust and sweat. "Hong Kong!" he raised his voice desperately, "I cannot understand the workings of the kitchen appliance you have lent me!"

He heard Hong Kong shout something almost inaudibly, catching a few phrases occasionally like, 'glass-ceramic', and 'electrical stove' and something about Japan being a smartarse who invented practically every machine on earth.

"Well," Yao said, half-distractedly, "I better not meddle with Japan's birthday gift for you, boy. God knows what I did to his _Tamagotchi_ last time, he got so mad…" He managed to cook an acceptably presentable dish without using the stove. He fanned the scent towards his nose and sniffed. Mmm, it smelt good. So good that he almost took a bite out of it himself, but restrained himself. No, it was the boy's birthday, and he must reserve the best for him…

Hong Kong trampled into the kitchen, his footsteps loud and irritable. Yao turned around and saw that his nose was buried in his Game Boy device, or whatever those funny consoles, or _gizmos_, were called. As usual. Probably another gift from America or Japan.

He saw him wrinkled his nose as the smell of food hit him. Yao cheerily carried the China bowl into the living room, setting it down on the wooden table. He beckoned back to his younger brother, rooted in exactly the same place jabbing on one of the buttons, "Come here, Hong Kong!" he said enthusiastically.

"Yeah, yeah," the teenager said boredly, eyes still glued on the screen as he somehow made his way safely to the table.

"Happy second birthday!" smiled Yao, whose feminine face was adorned with faint traces of weariness as he observed Hong Kong's passive reaction.

The boy finally let go of his toy, big, round eyes as bright and clear as China's symbol of yin and yang, dark brown and sharp white as they darted around the room and more importantly to the bowl of steaming food on the table, scrutinizing it.

They were in Yao's residence, and Hong Kong was visiting him for a few days. Despite being the host (or maybe _because_ he was the host), Yao felt more and more ashamed at the way Hong Kong was examining snottily at the environment of the house. The walls were blackened and moldy, falling apart, thanks to the years of war that had kept Yao's house from revitalization. The chairs and tables were moth-bitten. Vines wrapped themselves jealously around the outer walls of the house. The delicate porcelain of the tiles, which once stood proudly as an Eastern symbol of wealth, were now being slowly eaten away by green moss. Surely this was a far cry from Hong Kong's expensive and glamorous apartments, all his Western architecture and air-conditioners and the shiny skyscrapers and colorful lights outside his window...

Those accusing brown eyes flickered back at Yao, and demanded, "Where are the others?"

Yao's shoulders sagged in relief, and he scolded himself inwardly for thinking that Hong Kong, lovely, young, vibrant Hong Kong, would dare look down on his _sensei_. This was a question he could handle, "I have told you once already," he said, his tone pleasant, "Kiku is attending a conference in Athens and Thailand is busy with his own affairs. I have tried to contact Yung Soo, but he seems to be arguing with his twin brother over something silly. Again. And Taiwan—"

"Alright, I get it," Hong Kong immediately scowled to hide a pink brush spreading over his cheeks, "I get the picture. No one's coming to celebrate with me. Well, except _you_, I guess."

He kicked a chair below him and sat on it sulkily, the game console dangling from his two fingers possessively. He leaned forward a bit and sniffed at the dish China made for him, "What's_ this_?"

"Shanghai noodles," Yao smiled dotingly, "I made them myself from scratch. That means I definitely did not buy them from a grocery store, but from a pack of dough—"

"What's that?" Hong Kong interrupted, stabbing at the bowl.

"That's, eh, soy sauce."

The corners of Hong Kong's mouth were tugged down. Disapproving, "I _know _that. So what's _this_, then?"

"A boiled egg."

"Looks weird to me."

"It was brewed in marinated sauce," Yao said, and he could tell Hong Kong was getting tired of his recipe. He added, "The reason I…I used to make Shanghai noodles for your birthday, remember? They are a symbol of good health and a long and healthy life. You loved it especially with soy sauce," he tried again, but Hong Kong was still staring at the bowl as if it was going to float off the table any minute, "Just give it a try."

The egg was floating lazily in between the white noodles.

Then, to his utter dismay, Yao saw Hong Kong push the bowl feebly away from himself, "Not hungry."

"Hong Kong," Yao sighed, "Don't be difficult now. I thought you said you wanted a birthday party."

"I…" Hong Kong faltered, his voice trailing off. A horrible second of awkward silence floated in between them, like the faint traces of smoke off the bowl. Hong Kong added quietly and quickly, "I thought…I thought there would be a birthday cake, or some sort."

Yao swallowed his hurt and drew himself up proudly, "Of course not. This is not the way we celebrate one's birthday."

"The thing is, I...I had _birthday candles_!" To his horror, Hong Kong had a list. He ticked his memories off his fingers happily, his eyes looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, "And a giant chocolate birthday cake and tea and cupcakes and scones and everything! A proper English birthday and everyone would be there, Arthur, of course, and Alfred and Francis and Matthew and sometimes even Ludwig and Feliciano and that cute little sailor guy who tags after Arthur! And then Arthur will tell me to make a birthday wish, and there will be lots and lots of presents_ just_ for me."

Yao felt ice pour into his insides with Hong Kong's exuberant recollections of his past 'birthdays', the ones that weren't even held on the first of July. Oh, of course, Great Britain had never allowed China come near Hong Kong when he was under his rule, let alone invited him to his younger brother's birthdays, so Yao always felt like an outcast whenever Hong Kong started talking about his beloved England.

But Hong Kong had never, never once, compared China to England when everyone else did; China had suspected he had never dared to dig up the old wounds that have caused their separation from one another in the first place…

Yao was usually calm; 4000 years had taught him to keep his temper in check. _Usually_. However, no one did ever humiliate him as much as Arthur Kirkland did back in his glory days…he felt anger well up inside him. But who was he, honestly, angry with? Great Britain, with his never-setting-sun Empire and his dominance over Asia? Or America, who filled Hong Kong, Taiwan and Japan with poisons of Capitalism and Consumerism? Or the boy himself, who had allowed himself to get so spoilt he had forgotten his respect for his_ sensei_? It felt more bitter and complicated than jealousy.

"I'm sorry," Yao let out a sigh, more agitated than he would have liked, "that my birthday plans were not as good as you were expecting."

Like a child who had blew off his tantrum, Hong Kong actually looked ashamed with his outburst, looking at China with those soft apologetic eyes, "I…I mean," he stuttered clumsily for a moment, so thrown by China's moodiness that his accented British English slipped onto his tongue; he tsked and switched to Mandarin, "What I meant was, I was only slightly taken back by the lack of…high spirits at my party. It…was different from my past birthdays, and I didn't mean to—to compare you to anyone, or…" he paused, "My birthdays with you were always great, right?"

"We spent your previous birthday crying our eyes out," China said, his voice fragile and emotionless.

"R…right," Hong Kong stammered nervously, blood rushing to his face as he reached towards the bowl of noodles, pushing it close. Holding his chopsticks the way China had taught him to, he began slurping on his noodles loudly, the way Japan often exhibited when_ he_ was consuming his_ ramen_. China felt slightly cheered as a flicker of genuine surprise overcame Hong Kong's face, and he muttered under his breath in his foreign language, between gulps of food, "Man, this tastes _bloody_ good."

"I'm glad," Yao said simply. He exhaled again, settling back in his ancient chair as he watched his younger brother eat his food like there was no tomorrow.

The road would not be easy, he told himself firmly, he had only gotten Hong Kong back for a year, a teenager with only sparse shreds of childhood memory of his childhood, a child who had been accustomed to the guardianship of England (and his terrible cooking), shaped by Western culture, who talked, ate, and even dressed like the Westerners. But China was determined to welcome him back no matter how Hong Kong inwardly rejected him. He was his older brother, so he will carry that responsibility towards his Eastern, Asian, Chinese brother.

He loved him fiercely no matter how England had driven them apart.

"Happy returns, Hong Kong," Yao said in Cantonese.

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><p><strong>AN:** Don't know what HK's problem is, Shanghai noodles are DEEELICIOUS. Well, *I* like them, at least. Though I prefer mine with a little bit of chili sauce and chicken wings...

The creepy thing was after I wrote this story I actually had marinated chicken wings for my birthday party...which wasn't really a birthday party because I didn't invite anyone (no, I didn't invite anyone, not like nobody showed up, I swear to God). I spent it with my family. :)

Please read and review! Come on, be nice to the birthday girl. :)

P.S. Oh, BTW, a question: What do you guys call Hong Kong? Hong, Hongy, Leon, or some random name? It's weird trying to use 'China' in some places and 'Yao' randomly and 'Hong Kong' popping out occasionally...


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